In a world where people are invulnerable to illness and death, with lives spanning hundreds of years, a sixteen-year-old becomes witness to the impossible – her brother’s failure to regenerate after death after which she suspects that she too may be mortal.

Everly Frost wrote her first story when she was nine. She grew up in a country town, lived for a little while in Japan, and worked for several years in Canberra, Australia's capital city. Now, Everly lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her husband and two children. She doesn't speak Japanese so often anymore, has left the cold Canberra winters behind, but has never stopped writing.

Blurb:
Luck? Forget it. Mei Yamagawa is fresh out of it. She's just been downsized from her 3rd job in five years and her bank account is dry. Now, to keep her head above water, she must leave Tokyo and move back to her rural Japanese hometown. And there's nothing worse than having to face your old rivals and ex-boyfriends as a failure while starting life over as a farm girl.

But when her best friend's father is murdered, and her best friend is named the main suspect, Mei turns her daydreaming ways towards solving the crime. Between dates disguised as lunches with the town's hottest bachelor chef, searching for clues, and harvesting sweet potatoes, Mei has a lot of non-paying work cut out for her.

Will she catch the killer before her bad luck turns worse? Or will she fry in the fire with the rest of her dreams of success?

About the Author:
Stephanie (S. J.) is a writer, knitter, amateur astrologer, Capricorn, and Japanophile. She loves foxes, owls, sushi, yoga pants, Evernote, and black tea. When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about writing or spending time outside, unless it’s winter. She hates winter. Someday she’ll own a house in both hemispheres so she can avoid the season entirely. She’s a mom to two great kids and lives with her husband and family outside NYC. They have no pets. Yet. When it comes to her work, expect the unexpected. She doesn’t write anything typical. Find her online at http://www.spajonas.com.

There is a tour wide giveaway for the blog tour of The Daydreamer. There will be two winners:
- One US Resident will win: One paperback copy of Adult Coloring Book Japan, One Signed Copy of The Daydreamer Detective, One signed copy of Removed, and a surprise flavor of Pocky!
- One International Resident will win: One ebook copy of The Daydreamer Detective, One ebook copy of Removed, and One ebook of each Rice Cooker Revenge, Washing Statue Wanderlust, and Mamachari Matchmaker

Exclusive Excerpt!!!

Yasahiro cleared his throat and raised his chin. “To start, we have a fresh green beans and lotus root salad. Crisp and tangy with toasted sesame seeds, rice vinegar, and ginger.” He pointed to the plate in front of me, greens and thin slices of lotus root arranged in a neat pile. “And these are my pork and scallion dumplings with Sriracha, ginger, and lemongrass dipping sauce.” Four plump dumplings sat on the other plate, and my mouth began to water.

“I hope you enjoy them,” he said, bowing and turning to go.

“Wait.” I snapped my hand out and grabbed the white fabric of his chef’s coat. “Won’t you be having lunch with me?”

I glanced around at the restaurant, crawling with people. Oh no. I’d honestly believed we’d have lunch together. He’d tell me about the food and his work and…

I blushed. Hard. I thought this was a date, didn’t I? Deep down, way down in the cellar of my brain, I’d daydreamed a date out of this. I was so stupid.

This was the lunch rush hour, and he only did this because I challenged him.

Snap out of it!

“I mean…” I stammered, and letting go of his chef’s coat, he smoothed out the wrinkles with his hand. “I know you can’t have lunch with me. It’s too busy in here. I just thought you might want to, um, explain a little more about the food?”

If only my lie sounded a little more confident.

A small smile grew across his lips, and my entire being died of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I do have a lot of work to do, including your main course.”

“Oh yes, of course. I completely understand. I’m looking forward to eating everything you bring out today. I’m sure I’ll be won over by Wednesday, and we’ll declare you the winner of this silly challenge.”

Because I was not coming here and eating alone while everyone around me ate together. I was willing to do that once in a while, with a book, but not every day. I’d rather I ate at home with Mom.

“No, no, no. I said I was going to feed you lunch for a whole week, and you can’t capitulate right away. You said this food would be bland, and I’m going to prove it’s not.”

I nodded slowly, resigned. What had I gotten myself into? I’d challenged a chef with a prestigious resume, a student of my mother’s, and the town’s newest darling. I should never have opened my mouth. I was close to making a complete fool of myself, and I regretted it to my bones.

Yasahiro paused for a moment as I took a sip of water.

“But, if you’d like to come and eat lunch a little later tomorrow, maybe after 14:00, I could eat with you. Lunch usually slows down by 13:30 and then we close the kitchen from 14:00 to 16:30 to prepare for dinner.”

“I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have —”

“It’s not a bother,” he interrupted, and this time, he stammered and seemed eager to keep me there. Hmmm. Interesting. The daydream of Yasahiro wandering the streets of Paris popped into my head again, and I stopped to add more details to it: the tiny scar through his right eyebrow, the shape of his ears, his white teeth (he must go to a private dentist). The daydream shifted and I imagined him at the dentist’s office, in the chair. No! Back to Paris. Yes, that was better.

Venus isn’t from Earth, she’s from Kelari. On her planet she’s next in line to rule, but there are those who will go to great lengths to make sure that doesn’t happen. Including frame her as a traitor.

Accused and sentenced, the gods of her planet exile her to Earth. They’ve given her one week to help a human find his true love. If she doesn’t succeed, she’ll die, but if she does she might lose her heart.

When she reached the water’s edge, she fell to her knees, eager to quench her thirst. Before the water touched her lips, a warning of danger stopped her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She glanced around.

She heard him before she saw him, his words sailing over the rapidly moving stream.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Startled, she glared, trying to make out his form. When her eyes finally found him, she stared, open-mouthed. Awed. Amazed.

Setting her mouth in a firm line, she asked, “Why not? I’m thirsty.” The words came out whinier than she’d intended. Years of combat training taught her to be on alert. Butshe hadn’t been prepared to run into a human so suddenly. Questions about the dark-haired boy bombarded her.

Her dehydration encouraged her to set them aside. She needed a drink, now or she worried she’d faint. Still keeping her eyes fixed on the boy, she bent at the waist, ready to plunge her mouth into the water.

The boy spoke again.

“Come here, you can have some of mine.” His voice reminded Venus of soft velvet, though the words came out slurred. One leg shook, like he’d been filled with writhing ants, the back of his thigh pounded against the thick, rotted tree stump he’d folded himself on.

Everything about him screamed dark and handsome, except his skin, which resembled hers. He appeared to be brooding, eyebrows scrunched, faraway look in his eyes. Plus, he reeked of angry attitude.

From where Venus stood, his eyes looked black with dark lashes and eyebrows. There was a scar, which ran straight as an arrow, from the tip of his nose to his left cheekbone. His clothes were all dark. A long-sleeved black shirt over a black t-shirt and dark blue jeans, at least that’s what she thought his trousers were called, and black lace up boots. Had a storm cloud come along, he probably would’ve been invisible to her eyes.

“What’s wrong with this water?” she yelled, though she’d already stood and started across.

“It isn’t clean. You could get sick.” His mouthed twitched, like he barely contained a smirk or a snide comment. “Nice boots, but where are your clothes? Not that I mind.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms and elbows on his thighs and watched her cross.

The icy water splashed against her legs. It reminded her that all she wore were her boots and unisa. She’d spent time with Zaren in nothing more . . . in fact less, because she didn’t like to wear shoes, and never experienced a need to cover up. Looking down, she realized how much of her body was exposed. A blush tried to creep across her cheeks, but she ground her teeth, shaking it off.

“Uh, I lost them. Are you sure you don’t mind if I have a drink?” She inclined her head toward the thermos next to him. Her throat became more parched, if that were possible. She resisted running over, chugging it.

“No, go ahead.” He picked up the red thermos, unscrewed the lid and held it out.

Venus rushed over. After a swallow, she realized it wasn’t water. The liquid burned all the way down. She gasped, dropping the thermos. Grabbing her throat, she watched the honey brown liquid spill onto the rocky dirt.

Gagging, she fell to her knees at the water’s edge, stuck her mouth in the stream and drank. With relief, her thirst started to subside. After several mouthfuls, she stood and turned. Water had soaked the ends of her waist-length hair as had some mud. When the frosty ends touched her skin, she jumped and swore. He snorted at her noticeable discomfort. His face revealed a look she’d seen before, on male kelarians, especially after they’d had too much of what humans called alcohol.

“I’d be happy to help warm you up, too.” As he spoke, he stood.

“You can take your foul thoughts and go straight to your—”

“Hey, I’m trying to be chivalrous.” And before Venus realized the tainted plan he’d devised, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her.

Until that moment, Venus hadn’t considered what her first kiss would feel like, but she knew this wasn’t right. Hard, full of anger. He pressed her lips open and she tasted the alcohol on his tongue, sickly sweet. His arms locked around her, crushing her body to his. She sensed a pleading in his embrace, a longing for an unfulfilled wish.

“Release her. Now,” Zaren yelled.

The human pushed Venus away, wiping his mouth.

“Come on, Venus,” Zaren grabbed her hand, pulling her from the foul boy.

She watched stunned, as the brooding human smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Venus. Funny,” he said, his words full of venom, like her name had been laced with poison.

She pulled her hand from Zaren’s. Anger ripped through her along with a gripping sadness at the loss of her family and her irrihunter. That this boy had the audacity to find humor in her name, at her, Princess Venus, daughter of King and Queen Carania, rulers of Alayeah, the biggest kingdoms in all of Kelari, was unacceptable. How dare he? She wouldn’t have it. Her heart ached and her body hurt, but she ignored the pain. Head held high, she marched over and slapped his face. Hard.

“Don’t ever touch me again.” She gave him a defiant stare, daring him to try.

“Well, Venus, you’ve no reason to worry. Your name alone will keep me as far from you as possible. The Goddess of Love, how ironic.” He chuckled without humor and turned. Head in his hands he sunk onto the dead stump.

At the sight of him in such a condition, her anger abated, replaced by an unbidden grief. She pushed the bizarre feelings away with vehemence. Surprised she felt anything but furious at him, she made her way to Zaren.

When they were a small distance away, Venus said, “What an annoying human. If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”

Zaren cleared his throat and walked ahead.

“What?” Venus asked, catching up and grabbing his arm.

“That annoying human is Michael, the boy you’re required to help.” He took a step forward, but stopped. “Humans and love,” he grumbled and stomped ahead.

Venus stopped and looked back, profoundly shocked. “But—”

He sighed. “Clothes, first.”

Author Bio:

RaShelle Workman is an international bestselling author. Several of her books have been translated into Turkish and her BLOOD AND SNOW series has sold over a million copies worldwide. When she isn't writing, she enjoys baking, creating new taco recipes, and watching Supernatural.

RaShelle lives in Utah with her husband, three children and their three dogs. Find her online by visiting her website at: www.rashelleworkman.com. And sign up for RaShelle's newsletter to receive free books and get information on book release dates: http://eepurl.com/sd_xP.

She vowed to uphold the law.He’s determined to break it.Together, they just might bend the rules.

Rookie cop, Sophie Nichols, knows the dangers of a one-night stand with a sexy stranger. Unable to resist the pull of cocky, badass biker, Ace Logan, she indulges in one steamy night of raw, unbridled passion.

At least, that was the plan…

As the new sergeant-at-arms for the Rogue Riders MC, Ace doesn’t need complications in his life—especially a curvy, captivating cop with a kick-ass attitude who has the power to wreak havoc on his club. So why can’t he stay away?

When Sophie’s brother is kidnapped by a ruthless criminal gang, Ace might be her only hope to find him. But once he has the rookie in his arms, he’ll never let her go. Now, Sophie must make a choice: break the law or break her heart?

Burnout is a standalone novella in the full-length Legal Heat series by New York Times bestselling author, Sarah Castille.

“You are small.” Ace reached out to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Even in those fucking sexy boots. And you’re curvy. But those curves would be wasted on a man like Bones. You got a body made for sex, not violence, and you need a man up for the challenge.”

She should have felt insulted, miffed, even outraged by his presumption. But he didn’t leer the way Bones had, and his tone was more appreciative than dirty. She had no doubt if she turned him down now, he would just walk away.

A real man. Confident and commanding without even a hint of the insecurity that had driven Ryan to return to their house the night after he’d been served with divorce papers.

“And that would be you?” Her voice lifted in a teasing tone. Although she couldn’t spend a night sexing it up with a criminal, she might as well have a bit of fun.

“Me.” His traced a thick finger along her jaw, his skin calloused and rough. The thought of his warm hands on her body sent a sizzle of heat straight to her core.

Her tongue darted out, slid over her bottom lip. She tasted the tang of lipstick, the faint hint of the whiskey she’d drunk to fortify herself before coming to the party, and the sweetness of desire.

Ace sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze locking on her tongue. “You got a name, babe?”

“Sophie.”

“Sophie.” He repeated her name with a sensual rumble that vibrated through her body, spreading out to her fingers and toes.

She liked the way he said her name, soft, almost like a prayer. She liked that he thought she was beautiful, although she had nothing on the women she’d seen as she passed through the house: taller, thinner, prettier, younger, wilder…with their piercings and dyed hair, leather crop tops, and minis. She liked it even more when he slid a hand around her waist to rest it in the small of her back, making her tingle from head to toe.

“Beer me, beautiful Sophie.”

“Beer you?”

“I just saved your sweet ass. Rescuing beautiful damsels in distress is thirsty work.” He gestured in the direction of the bar behind them with the slightest lift of his chin. “I’ll keep an eye on your ass for you as you walk away. Make sure no one else touches it.”

Someone needed to learn a lesson.

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Sarah Castille, writes contemporary erotic romance and romantic suspense featuring blazingly hot alpha males and the women who tame them. She is the author of the Redemption series, the Sinner’s Tribe MC series, and the Legal Heat series. A recovering lawyer and caffeine addict, she worked and travelled abroad before trading in her briefcase and stilettos for a handful of magic beans and a home on Vancouver Island.

Today Philip W. Simpson and Month9Books are revealing the cover and first chapter for ARGOS! Which releases May 10, 2016! Check out the gorgeous cover and enter to be one of the first readers to receive an eGalley!!

Hereâs a message from the author.

This was a labor of love for me. I have always loved dogs and stories of dog's courage and loyalty. Hearing or reading these never fail to make me cry. Particularly stories of dogs like Grey Friar's bobby and Hachiko. And then there's the story of Argos - probably the most famous and loyal dog of all time. In Homer's Odyssey, there's literally only one page dedicated to the death of Argos and for me, it was the most moving scene in the whole book.

I had to write this book, not only for myself but for all the dogs I've loved throughout my life. I had no choice in the matter.

I love this cover because it's evocative and moody (much like the cover to my last book, Minotaur). It also begs certain questions: why is a dog in a boat being rowed across a river by a heavily cowled boatman? Those who are familiar with the classics will know the boatman is Charon and the river is the Styx. Therefore the dog is in Hades. But why? A dog has no place in Hades so what makes Argos so special? I love covers that make the reader ask these types of questions.

Raised from a pup by Greek hero, Odysseus, Argos has come to learn the true meaning of love and loyalty. But when Odysseus leaves for the Trojan War, little does Argos know it will be 20

years before he sees his master again. With Odysseus gone his wife, Penelope, and son, Telemachus, are easy prey for neighboring kings and the Gods themselves.

But Argos was tasked to keep them safe until Odysseus returns and that is a promise he is

determined to keep â whatever the cost. Told through his eyes, Argos recounts the story of his

life â his pain, his joy, his triumphs and failures; his endurance in the face of hardships almost too great to believe.

Above all else, Argos strives to do what is right â and to remain loyal to his King when all others have given up hope. To live long enough to see his beloved master one more time.

This epic myth of love and loyalty proves that a dog really is man's best friend.

Excerpt

Prologue

So this is what itâs like to die?

I donât know what I expected, but it certainly isnât this slow humiliating descent into darkness. My body aches, bruised by the fists and feet of Penelopeâs suitors and servants, joints painfully swollen by age.

Flies swarm around me, attracted by the stench of the manure pile beneath me, or perhaps sensing the death that is slowly creeping toward me. If I am honest, they donât annoy me so much. My vision is cloudy at best, eyes misted over by the onset of time. I can barely see their dark flickering shapes and I havenât the strength to dislodge them when they land. To try and maintain a little dignity, I make the odd attempt to flick my tail or ears but both the flies and I know my heart isnât in it.

Two old men walk past, leading an ox and open wagon through the palace gates. I lift my head slightly in an effort to see them better, more out of habit than any great interest. I sniff the air, trying to gauge what is in the wagon. All I can smell is feces. My sense of smell, almost overcome by what lies beneath me, fails, and I silently curse my aging, traitorous senses. If I had to guess, I would say they are farmers, bringing produce for the palace kitchens, probably to feed the greedy, slovenly mouths of the suitors who buzz around Penelope much like the flies above my dying body.

The two old men spare me a glance. Although my eyes are not what they once were, I detect sympathy in their gazes. Perhaps they recognize me for who I am or who I once was. Or perhaps not. Maybe they just see an old dog dying on a steaming pile of manure.

Hours later, two other men pass by, dressed in finery that makes them anything but farm hands. I recognize their faces but I would know them regardless by their swagger. Two of Penelopeâs suitors come to steal another manâs wife. I hate them with every ounce of my being. If I were even five years younger, I would launch myself at them and tear their arms and legs off with great bites of my powerful jaws. But I am not five years younger. I am old and incapable of doing anything but glare at them balefully.

Like the two older men earlier, they look in my direction. One of them says something I canât quite catch to the other and they both laugh. The taller suitor reaches into a pouch at his side and pulls out an object that he throws in my direction. It lands off the manure pile, well out of paw reach. I suspect it is a piece of dried meat.

âHere,â he says, laughing. âEat this. If you can.â

His companion joins in the laughter and they disappear through the palace gates knowing full well that I will not be able to reach the tasty morsel. I wouldnât eat it in any case. I would much rather starve to death than receive salvation from the likes of them.

Directly overhead, the sun beats mercilessly down. Waves of heat wash over me and warms the manure pile even more. The pile of droppings from mules and oxen are a mixed blessing. For the last two nights, my bed of filth has kept me warm and soothed my aching joints. During the day, however, things are altogether different. The heat is stifling, unbearable, and even I, well accustomed to the most repulsive of scents, am sickened.

My tongue lolls slackly from my open mouth. It is almost too much effort to pant but I know that if I do not, I will die from the relentless heat. I am no longer hungry but would give almost anything for a bowl of cool water with which to quench my thirst. Perhaps even a tub that I could plunge my whole body intoâsomething I would never have done as a young pup. All my life, I have avoided baths, but now I am driven almost crazy by the thought of indulging in something I once hated.

A bath would have an additional benefit. The fleas and ticks that infest my body would probably decide that my scrawny carcass isnât worth the effort and depart for more luxurious quarters. I would not miss them. The flies I can tolerate, but the incessant biting of these degenerate little creatures is almost more than I can bear. If I had the strength, I would obliterate them with mighty paw strokes.

When I was younger, Penelope or Telemachus would sometimes gently comb them from my body while I lay before the fire in the great hall of Odysseus. Just the thought of such times sends a pleasurable tremor coursing through my body.

I daydream about what they would do if they knew I was lying here, dying and surrounded by filth and decay. Penelope would gather my head into her soft hands and gently kiss my forehead. Telemachus, my human brother, would hug me and rub salves into my open wounds. Together, they would ease my pain and comfort me like they have many times throughout my life.

But those times are long gone. Penelope is locked in her rooms in the palace of Ithaca, besieged by unwelcome suitors. Telemachus left the island months ago to seek out his father, my master, the great hero Odysseus. It is probably a futile quest. Odysseus has been gone for twenty years and, if the words of the palace staff are to be believed, long dead. But neither I nor Telemachus believe it, cannot bring ourselves to believe it. I have heard from the gods themselves that he lives, and whilst they like to play with the lives of mortals, I want to believe them. A man like Odysseus does not simply just die. He is destined for more than death.

It is he that keeps my soul harnessed to my body. The loyalty toward my master and a forlorn hope that he will return to me before I am claimed by death. All of my contemporaries have been in the grave for years already. Not me. It is this loyalty and hope that has kept me going for twenty years.

What I would give to see him one last time.

Chapter One

I awake only to discover that I have died. I am surrounded by gloomy silence. The landscape is devoid of featuresâor color for that matter. Mist washes over me, tendrils swirling together to form almost recognizable shapes and figures. I can hear whispered voices but from which direction they come, Iâm not sure.

I know where I am of course. Hades. The Underworld. The halls of the dead. It makes sense that I am here and yet it does not. The last thing I remembered was lying dying on the manure pile outside the palace gates. Clearly, my body had given up its futile quest for life and so here I am.

But that doesnât ring true. As far as I know, the Underworld is the place where the souls of the dead dwell. The human dead. The souls of other creatures do not find their rest here. Dogs certainly arenât allowed inâat least I had never heard of any dogs being granted the privilege. I had heard the stories of the heroes who had ventured into the Underworld before their time: Aeneas, Cupid and Psyche, Heracles, Pirithous and Theseus. Not one of them mentioned encountering any dogs.

Perhaps I am going to be the first. But why single me out for this singular honor, if honor is indeed what it is? I have done nothing special. Like most dogs, I have devoted myself and my life to my master. I donât believe that is so unusual.

A thought occurs to me: maybe Iâm not in the Underworld after all. Perhaps Iâm dreaming. As dreams go, itâs pretty bland. I console myself in the knowledge that it is still better than reality, where I have to face endless torment from fleas and ticks.

I choose a direction at random and start walking. I have no destination in mind and no goal. It is simply something to do. Padding along comfortably, it is then that I notice something unusual about my body. When I had last seen my own scrawny flesh, it looked nothing like this. My fur is healthy and clean. Clean! My muscles feel strong, nothing like the wasted bag of old bones I had been moments before. I am young again! What joy!

I take some time to experience the true thrill of youth, to leap and bound, and spring lightly. It is a heady sensation. The gods only know how long I do this for. Itâs hard to keep track of time in this place but I donât careâIâm too busy enjoying myself. After some time however, I gradually become aware that someone or something is watching me. Unbidden, my hackles and the fur on the back of my neck rise. A growl rumbles deep in my chest and emerges through barred teeth.

The mist clears and a boat materializes before me, bobbing calmly on a river as black as night. A figure stands on the boat, shrouded in a black cowl, taller than any human. He carries a long pole which he uses to halt his progress against the swift current.

A long finger emerges from the black sleeves and beckons toward me. I donât move. I canât move, frozen as I am in fear. I know who this is and I dare not approach.

The figure cocks his head at me as if considering. Then he whistles. It is the same two-tone whistle used by countless dog owners. Against my will, my traitorous tail wags and I take first one hesitant step forward and then another. Before I know it, I am standing on the shore next to the boat and the boatman.

âPay your fare,â demands a sepulchral voice drifting out of the black cowl. A hand emerges again from the sleeve. This time I get a good look at it. It is twice as large as any humanâs, but with six fingers. The flesh enclosing the bones appears to be rotting.

I donât bother trying to respond. Itâs not like I can speak and tell him I have no fare. I believe it is customary to pay a coin to cross the river Acheronâbecause this of course is what it is. One of the legendary rivers of the Underworld, it marks the boundary of Hades. The only way in or out is across the river and the only way to cross the river is in the boat controlled by Charon, the boatman.

To gain passage, relatives of the recently deceased have to place a coin in the mouths of the dead. I have seen this done many times before, but I have no coin myself. Just to be sure, I open my mouth to check. Sure enough, I feel nothing on my tongue.

Charon cocks his head again. He seems to be listening to something, but even I, with my magnificent hearing, can detect nothing.

âVery well,â he says, seeming to talk to himself. He indicates that I am to enter the boat and obediently, I do exactly that, even though every part of my body screams at me to flee. I have always struggled to resist going for a ride in any form of moving vehicle, be it chariot, cart or boat.

Charon says nothing as he poles us slowly across the river. The Acheron flows into another river, which I assume is the Styx. Unable to resist the impulse, I sit perched in the bow, my tongue wagging, sniffing the warm breeze. I detect nothing I recognize.

Eventually, we reach the far shore. I donât have to be told to get out. I leap out as soon as I am able which is just as well because no sooner have I done so, Charon turns the boat and heads back the way he had come.

There is a darker line of shadow on the horizon before me, and with no better prospects, I make for it. As I get closer, I recognize it for what it is. A huge inky black gate made of some material I am not familiar with. Two huge doors are set within but it is not these objects that command my attention.

Sitting calmly before the doors is a creature the likes of which I have never seen before. It is a massive dog. It isnât just size that marks it as unusual. This dog has three heads, a serpentâs tail, and a mane of snakes that weave angrily in and out of the coarse black hair that covers the rest of the creature. Each huge paw is tipped with long claws that bear no resemblance to my own. These claws look like they could shred tree trunks.

I know immediately who it is. Cerberus. The great guardian of the gates of Hell. It is his job to ensure that none of the denizens of this place ever leave.

One of the heads swivels in my direction. I meet the gaze of those blood red eyes with rising panic.

âBe calm, Argos,â says Cerberus in a voice like smoke and thunder. âYou have nothing to fear from me.â

âYour appearance certainly belies that,â I say in my head. When I was younger, I had tried to speak but quickly realized that I didnât possess the clever tongue or vocal apparatus possessed by humans. My habit then had been to reply to rhetorical questions in my own mind. You can imagine my surprise when Cerberus gives every appearance of not only hearing me, but understanding me, too.

The central head of the huge Hellhound nods. âI realize that I appear quite fearsome, but it is mostly for show. Those who dwell here must stay. I could hardly stop them if I had the appearance and abilities of say, a common dog.â

I swear to the gods that the speaking head seems to be smiling slightly. Thatâs if dogs can smile. I confess I have tried to smile many times, but all I have succeeded in doing is lolling my tongue.

âI donât think Iâd risk a confrontation with you,â I say.

âReally, Argos? I have heard tales of your bravery. I think there are many things you would risk. Especially for your master.â I notice that only one head speaks while the two heads flanking the central one move constantly, their baleful eyes seeking out any who would dare escape.

âYou know of my master Odysseus then?â I ask.

The central head nods. âOf course. Odysseus is beloved of the godsâespecially by the gray-eyed Goddess Athena. I have even heard my own master, Hades, speak highly of him. His deeds are legendary.â

âThey are?â I ask, silently cursing myself for doubting this fact. Of course his deeds are legendary. The actions of my master could not be anything else. I just hadnât heard of any of them. âSo my master lives then?â

âIt is not for me to say, Argos. I am sorry. Come closer. Do not be afraid.â

Tentatively, I do as Cerberus asks and trot toward him, stopping a few spear lengths away. My sense of perspective immediately changes and I sit down on my haunches in order to take in the enormity of it. The gate is taller than any structure I have ever seen. As for Cerberus, he towers over me, larger than any creature I have ever encountered. Larger even than a rhinoceros. A visitor to Ithaca once told Odysseus about a mythical creature called an elephant that he had seen in his travels. From his description, Cerberus must be at least equal in size.

As nervous as I am, curiosity gets the better of me. âCan I at least hear about these legendary deeds then?â I ask, wagging my tail hopefully.

âPerhaps another time,â says Cerberus. Eddies of smoke are slowly rising from his speaking mouth. âI have brought you here for another reason.â

âOther than the fact that Iâm dead?â I ask.

âAre you?â counters Cerberus.

âWhy else would I be here then?â I retort. A niggling doubt is starting to form. Maybe this is a dream after all.

âLet me ask you something, Argos. I have served my master, Hades, for millennia and will continue to do so for all of existence. Why do I do that?â

âFor loyalty,â I say immediately. âFor love.â

This time, Cerberus nods all three heads. âIndeed. I love my master. He is everything to me and he has repaid my loyalty countless times. I would do anything for him.â

âAs would I for my master,â I say.

âAnd that is why you are here, Argos. You are an exceptional dog. You may not think so but I have watched you and I know. Your loyalty and your love for your master is exceptional. It compares even to my o

wn.â âSo why am I here?â I ask, slightly confused.

âBecause, I want to hear your story. I want to hear it told in your own words, to experience it from your perspective. I want to hear about everything you and Odysseus experienced together and what made your bond so strong. I want to know why you have waited twenty years for him. In short, I want to hear the story of your life.â

âWhy?â I ask.

âBecause,â says Cerberus, âI want to know that Iâm not the only one. That Iâm not the only one whose loyalty exceeds all expectation and belief.â

âAnd why should I do this for you?â I venture.

âYou might be surprised if I told you,â says Cerberus.

The words send a shiver running down my spine.

Phillip W. Simpson is the author of many novels, chapter books and other stories for children. His publishers include Month9books, Macmillan, Penguin, Pearson, Cengage, Raintree and Oxford University Press.

He received his undergraduate degree in Ancient History and Archaeology and both his Masters (Hons) degree in Archaeology and his Masters (Hons) degree in Creative Writing from the University of Auckland. Before embarking on his writing career, he joined the army as an officer cadet, owned a comic shop and worked in recruitment in both the UK and Australia. His first young adult novel, Rapture (Rapture Trilogy #1), was shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Awards for best Youth novel in 2012. When not writing, he works as a school teacher.

Phillip lives and writes in Auckland, New Zealand, with his wife Rose, their son, Jack, and their two border terriers, Whiskey and Raffles. He loves fishing, reading, movies, football (soccer) and single malt Whiskeys. www.phillipwsimpson.com

O​livia Simon is starting over in the Big Easy. Her new job as a yoga instructor means she gets to pursue her passion, while giving her the motivation she needs to get back on track. But she’s scared. Really scared. Scared her abusive ex-boyfriend will find her. Scared of all things that go bump in the night… and day. She knows her ex will have a claim on her future happiness unless she can find her own peace. Which starts with Kyle.

Kyle Avery, a former college baseball player on the brink of going pro, is also starting over. His dream since Little League was shattered when a jealous rival went too far in a pre-season game. After a few surgeries, all Kyle is left with are a few rods in his leg, a rebuilt knee, and no idea who he is without baseball. But when he trades center field for a yoga mat, he finds solace in a way he never imagined. Kyle knows there’s something about Olivia. Something he needs to move forward.

But Olivia loves to run, and it’s too soon for her to be playing house. Olivia and Kyle want to invest in each other, but the secrets they’ve kept take a dangerous turn when Olivia’s past returns with a vengeance. Devastated and helpless, Olivia wonders who she can really trust, and Kyle questions if he was ever able to keep her safe.

The only thing Briana and Tiana have in common are their identical looks. For Tiana, life is one challenge after another, but her greatest struggle is sharing a face with the sister she despises. Tired of living in the shadows, she comes up with a plan to finally have everything she ever wanted.

Everything seems to come easy for Briana, including her beautiful children, loving husband and dynamic career. Briana’s charmed life is ripped apart when she wakes up in the hospital with no idea who she is and no memory of her former life. With the help of the handsome stranger who saved her, Briana builds a new life and finds new love, while Tiana won’t rest until Briana has no life at all.

Chris rounded the stairs that led to the first level of his loft and looked out of the peep hole. Sure enough, it was his son’s mother and she looked lit up. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

She stumbled as the door swung open.

“Why are you knocking on my door at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Because I need to t-talk,” she stuttered, “to you!”

“No, Sandra, you need to go home. Where is Christopher?” he asked.

“Well, he ain’t gone be at the club with me!” she stated matter-of-factly. “So that was a dumb question.”

Chris sighed, unable to continue the dance they did at his front door. “Go home,” he said, and slammed the door in her face.

“Oh no you didn’t!” he heard her say from the other side of the door.

Boom! Boom! Boom! She beat on the door again and crossed her arms. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me, so you might as well come back to the door. I don’t care if your neighbors call the police. I will stand here until they arrive!”

Tiana pushed past Chris. He reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her.

“Look, this heffa ain’t going away, and I’m about to give her a piece of my mind. She’s ruining our night!”

“Baby, calm down, I got this.”

Tiana huffed. “I can’t tell!”

She pivoted on her heels and went to the kitchen. The banging on the door continued. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. Looking in the cupboard she removed a wine glass and popped the cork on a bottle of Emmolo Merlot that had been sitting on ice since their earlier tryst. She rolled her eyes as she listened to Chris in the front room arguing with his son’s mother. This is the last thing she needed. She sipped from the glass and closed her eyes as the caramelized plum, brown spices and rich fruit flavor oozed down her throat. She took another swig; it was delicious, but what would’ve been better is if she could get back into bed with Chris.

“Enough of this,” she said.

Tiana made her way back to the living room where the couple was still arguing. She cleared her throat and stepped into view, letting her robe open just enough to show off her bare chest and panties. She took another swig of her wine as she watched a look of fury cross the woman’s face. Tiana almost laughed. Chris didn’t look amused, but he wouldn’t dare tell her otherwise.

“Baby, should I go? I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Tiana purred innocently.

Chris gave her a knowing look. He knew that she was aware that their argument had nothing to do with her. Tiana just wanted to make her presence known.

Author Bio:

Stephanie Nicole Norris is an author from Chattanooga Tennessee with a humble beginning. She was raised along with six siblings by her mother, Jessica Ward. Always being a lover of reading from early childhood Stephanie loved to read books by R.L. Stine. With a natural talent for writing Stephanie started her journey in 2010 to bring her stories to life. In 2011 her Debut Novel "Trouble In Paradise" was completed and shortly published in early 2012. Stephanie’s words tell stories of love, drama, deception, suspense, and restoration. She is inspired by the likes of Eric Jerome Dickey, Jackie Collins, Gwynne Forster, and more. She resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

It took only four months to bring the angels to their kneesâ¦ With a virus ravaging the fallen angels on earth, mankindâs symbol of love and hope is at risk of extinction. Centuries ago, a group of angelic warriors known as The Fallen risked everything to save themselves and carve a future for their kind. Hope slips away as The Fallen and their kin are cut down by an ancient menace, LaMorte Neraâand no one saw it coming. Only one immortal can save them, and only one mortal can stand in his wayâ¦ â When Nephilim warrior Killian St. James sets out on a quest to find a cure, he and his blade-brothers discover nineteen-year-old Aubrey Carterâa human with a past as dark as it is mysteriousâcowering in an abandoned house in the heart of Memphis, Tennessee. The corrupted races are chasing her, and Killian is determined to find out whyâ¦ But neither he nor Aubrey are prepared for their attraction to one another, or for the frightening truths lurking in the shadows. The painful childhood memories Aubrey has buried hold precious answers. Answers that threaten to tear Killian's world apart. With her life hanging in the balance, Killian must choose between the future of The Fallen, and the human girl he's pledged to protect. Demons are rising, and this time they plan to win the war for dominion once and for all.

Killian stepped forward, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him. He still seemed so big to her. He still overwhelmed her. But he didnât frighten her anymore.

âYou look tired.â She fought the urge to lift her hand to touch his gorgeous face.

âI am,â he said, the corner of his lips turning up in a half smile.

âOh.â

He stared down at her, his half smile slipping. A dizzying parade of emotions swirled through his eyes. She couldnât read them all, but she understood enough. He felt as torn as she did.

âWill I remember you three years from now?â she whispered, her heart aching with the fear that she would forget him as she had so much elseâ¦and with fear that she would remember him. That she would survive this nightmare and he would haunt her for the rest of her days like so much else did.

âDo you want to remember me?â He took another step in her direction.

âI donât know.â She frowned, confused. âYou make me feel like maybe the world isnât so bad. Like maybe Iâm safe with you. I donât think I want to forget that.â

Killian tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek gently in one big hand. âYou are safe with me. I wonât let anyone hurt you, Aubrey.â

She stared at him for a long, silent moment. Heâd promised before that he wouldnât hurt her, but even then an unspoken fear had stood between them like a wall. A little voice whispered that if she got too close, he would hurt her as badly as the things in her past hurt. That voice had stopped whispering when heâd kissed her today, and wasnât that odd?

âYou hurt me today.â

He bowed his head, letting his hand fall away from her face. âIâm sorry.â

Her heart ached a little at the agonized way he said it. As if it shamed him to know heâd hurt her. As if, maybe, he cared more than he should too.

âWhy did you?â she asked, not accusing, but curious. She wanted to understand him. No, she needed to understand him on some level she couldnât even explain to herself. âYou wanted me, didnât you?â

His gaze sought hers, honesty shining from his angel-bright eyes. âMore than you know.â

Aubrey took a deep breath, letting her lungs fill with air even as her heart filled with his confession. And just as quickly, the buoyant feeling vanished. âIt doesnât change anything, though, does it?â she whispered.

âDo you want it to?â

She hesitated for a long moment, unsure. And then her shoulders slumped, the breath sheâd taken expelling in a long sigh. âIâm sorry.â

Killian gave her a sad smile and reached for her again. He swept a finger beneath her eye, collecting the teardrop she hadnât even realized had fallen. âNo apologies,â he whispered, bringing his finger to his mouth. He stuck out the tip of his tongue and lapped that single bead of moisture from his fingertip. âYou owe me nothing.â

If that was true, why did she feel like crying?

A.K. Morgen is the Amazon Bestselling author of the RagnarÃ¶k Prophesies series. She lives in the heart of Arkansas with her childhood sweetheart/husband of twelve years, and their five furry minions. When not writing, she spends her time hiking, reading, volunteering, causing mischief, and building a Spork army. Ayden graduated summa cum laude with her Bachelor of Science degree in Criminal Justice and Forensic Psychology in 2009 before going on to complete her graduate degree in CJ and Law. She currently puts her education to use in the social services and CJ field. Ayden also writes New Adult and contemporary romance under the penname Ayden K. Morgen. You can find her on Twitter, Facebook, or via her website at http://aydenmorgen.com.

This is my stop during the blog tour for A Shot of Bourbon by A.C. Land. This blog tour is organized by Lola's Blog Tours. The blog tour runs from 29 March till 11 April, you can view the complete tour schedule on the website of Lola’s Blog Tours.

A Shot of Bourbon (The Bourbon Series #1)By A.C. LandGenre: Contemporary RomanceAge category: Young AdultRelease Date: March 29, 2016Publisher:BookFish Books

Seventeen year old Charli Valentine didn’t expect to spend the last few weeks of summer break nursing a broken heart, icing a black eye, and watching her ex kiss another girl. Since being a good girl has gotten her nothing but heartache, Charli decides to give rebellion a try. She pigs out, drinks, and hangs with Luke Parker, the son of the infamous Bourbon Butcher.

But there’s more to Luke than meets the eye. His tough exterior and terrible dialect hide a good person despite his bad boy reputation. No matter how hard he tries to fight it, Luke is drawn to Charli’s innocence and finds her clumsiness too charming to resist. Though they’re from opposite sides of the tracks, neither can resist the magnetism drawing them together.

When Charli discovers a box in her mother’s closet, she pieces together the truth about Bourbon’s past and uncovers a deadly secret about her family. And once Luke learns of it, he vows to protect Charli no matter the cost.

About the Author:
Author of the Bourbon Series, A.C. Land has been a lover of stories since she first read about Peter Pan giving Wendy an acorn and teaching her to fly. A.C. always dreamed of telling big stories about small towns.
Residing on a cattle farm in Missouri, A.C. loves playing with her rambunctious Jack Russell, Riley, making decorative cakes, taking pictures, drinking pumpkin spice coffee, and hanging out with her nephews.

Guest Post! Interview with the Author

The Recipe Fairy-Guest Post A.C. LandWhy I started writing…I always wanted to write a book, but I never imagined I’d be able to finish one. It’s funny because I hear people say that now and I think ‘yes, yes you can.’ The real reason I decided to finally sit down a start—and ultimately finish—a novel was because of a terrible car crash.Is that cliché? To say that a near death experience changed the course of my life?I was 22 and college was as boring as it is for any 22-year-old. My accident happened. I was in the passenger seat of myowncar and the roof had to be cut off so I could be taken out. I broke several bones and probably should have been hurt worse than I was. But I stood up and walked out of the emergency room that night.The next day I wrote the first five chapters of my first book.I thought, if I had died, what would people remember me for. Being the girl that died in the passenger seat—not even driving—her own car. That’s not very awesome. I’m fairly nice to people, so maybe they’d have remembered me for that. That’s not real cool either.The more I wrote, though the more I realized that I wasn’t doing it to be remembered after I died. I was doing it to live. A piece of my soul was sucked into every page. I can’t say how many books I’ve actually written, but I wrote the entire (seven books) Bourbon Series before ever pitching them to BookFish Books.I can honestly say that almost all of the books that are locked in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet are called ‘Bourbon’ in some form or another. Bourbon is a small highway town in Missouri—really, it is. I grew up down a little dirt road just outside of city limits. I love everything about this place. I love the smells in summer—like river and honeysuckle. I love the feel of mud after driving a windowless Jeep too fast through a wet ditch. I love the taste of the first tomato in July.But growing up I noticed that I was one of the very few that appreciated the art that was Bourbon. Everyone wanted out. It’s an opportunity-less town. The economy has shown itself here and the farms aren’t what they used to be.Where did I get the inspiration for the Bourbon Series? I made it up. I imagined a world where Bourbon was fantastic andfake. Then I got out a pen and I created something that wasn’t.

Olivia Townsend is in trouble and out of options. Pursued by a desperate man in search of a lost treasure, which she doesnât have, sheâs got only two things in her favor: her late husbandâs diary, which she was never meant to seeâ¦ and the man who was her first-and only-love. Losing him broke her heart, though sheâs been careful to hide it for the last ten years. But when he comes to her aid and vows to stand by her this time, no matter what, she canât help but hope things will be different this time.

James Weston has blamed himself for letting Olivia down when she needed him years ago, and he will not do it again. Fortunately, his unusual life has equipped him well to outsmart the villain chasing Olivia. Unfortunately, being so near her again threatens to expose every secret in his heartâ¦even those that should stay hidden forever.

Caroline Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Ten years, twelve books, three Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Readerâs Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWAâs RITA Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com.

About Me

I'm a Texas gal with a wonderful husband, an amazing six year old son, and an adorable newborn baby boy!​My blog is about the best things in life - cooking, books, giveaways and reviews of everyday products! ​This is a PR-friendly blog!!